


lips long parching

by Annerb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Getting Together, In Vino Veritas, Trope Fic, two idiots who don't know they are in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 21:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18374087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annerb/pseuds/Annerb
Summary: Going solo to her ex’s wedding is not exactly Ginny’s idea of a good time, but thanks to a smuggled flask and a rather sullen Harry Potter, it’s about to get a lot more interesting.





	lips long parching

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse me as I work my way through writing every trope that has ever existed. Lots of thanks to Bethany for glancing this over for me!

 

> _I bring an unaccustomed wine_  
>  _To lips long parching, next to mine,_  
>  _And summon them to drink._  
>  -Emily Dickinson

 

The wedding is, all things told, rather tasteful. The ceremony was short and meaningful without being cringe-worthy, and the food is more palatable than is often expected from wedding buffets—and Ginny feels she’s eaten a disproportionate amount of wedding buffets the last couple years, so she’s definitely in a place to judge. The worst that can be said about the wedding is that there is a serious lack of an open bar.

Which wouldn’t really be that big of a problem if it weren’t for the empty seat next to Ginny at what she’s internally dubbed as the Leftovers Table. Not exactly a charitable thought, but there is always that one table at the wedding feast that is clearly made up of the people the organizers couldn’t figure out where else to put. So there are random distant cousins and what must be a workmate of Seamus’s mum. Ginny would much rather be comfortably seated with Luna and Neville and Ron and the rest of their mates. They sit at one of the front and center tables, which sure, putting the groom’s ex that close to the wedding party might be strange. But does she really deserve this?

She looks longingly from her empty champagne glass to Hermione’s across the room, sparkling enticingly.

Their wedding is up next, Hermione having put Ron off until her career felt ‘secure’. Instead it had been put off until she got knocked up. Not that most people know that. They’ll probably be able to pull the ceremony off before anyone notices.

At least at _that_ wedding Ginny won’t get relegated to the table of shame. And she’ll get a date for that one too.

Which, okay, so she’s flying solo. Again, not the end of the world. Except.

“Is it weird?” Parvati asks from her left, leaning around her date (short and a bit vacant-looking, but wearing egregiously expensive robes that even Ginny couldn’t fail to note the value of).

“What?” Ginny asks, catching Hermione’s eye across the room, waving her empty glass at her.

Hermione rolls her eyes, but taps her own full glass, the champagne appearing in Ginny’s.  

“Seeing Dean get married, of course,” Demelza says on her right, eyeing the empty seat between them.

Ginny would be glad to at least have her old friend Demelza seated with her, but things have been tense between them ever since Ginny got her starting spot on the Harpies and Demelza is still struggling as a reserve for Falmouth.

“No,” Ginny says, wondering if it’s _supposed_ to be weird. They dated for four and a half years, technically. If one counted the year Dean was on the run from the government and the last year when they barely saw each other.

Ginny tends not to count that last year. Especially since she is fairly certain he’d been already messing around with Seamus behind her back for at least the last three months of it, no matter how much Dean denies it.

“I think it would be weird,” Parvati says, her date nodding in agreement.

“I’m glad for them,” Ginny counters, refusing to play this game like it’s a competition Dean’s won, being the first of them to get married and move on.

Demelza gives her a look that is horribly close to pity.

Ginny downs Hermione’s champagne. “He’s clearly happier with Seamus than I ever made him.”

Parvati lets out a very unsubtle snort, and Ginny is still too sober not to want to stab people.

“Speaking of making people happy,” Demelza says, leaning her arm on the back of the vacant chair, “where is dear Caleb?”

“Callum,” Ginny corrects absently, wondering why her drink has to be so empty. Like a bloody open bar would kill them?

“He couldn’t make it?” she says, clearly sensing blood.

“I didn’t ask him,” she says dismissively. “That fizzled out a while ago.”

Though fizzle isn’t exactly the right word for it, more Ginny deciding she was too exhausted to put up with him anymore.

“How horrible,” Parvati says.

Ginny’s jaw clenches. “Not really. Quidditch doesn’t leave a lot of time for socializing.”

Parvati looks at her date, hand pressed to her chest. “I think I’d rather be caught dead than show up at my ex’s wedding solo.”

Ginny forces a smile on her face, feeling that empty chair next to her like a giant sign of her pathetic-ness. She really _had_ intended to find someone else, time just got away from her. She shouldn’t have let her stupid ego get in the way and just RSVP’d for one. This is what she gets, she supposes. “Well then, I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t me.”

Mercifully, soon after they drift away from the table to dance and partake in other asinine wedding rituals. She takes advantage of it by escaping to her brother’s table.

She squeezes in next to Hermione, automatically swiping her still untouched white wine from the first course.

“Really, Ginny,” she says, voice amused, “you don’t have to drink all my drinks.”

“I really, really do, Hermione,” she replies.

Thanks to the doubling of her drinks, she is _finally_ beginning to rock the start of a buzz. She knows her way around a drink, could hardly do otherwise having been a Harpy for four years, but tends to save her intensive bouts for post-game celebrations and blowing off steam in the comfort of her team pub.

Tonight, being buzzed seems like a good strategy for surviving the evening.

“That bad?” Ron asks, having the indecency to look amused at her clear distress. Wanker.

Ginny sighs. “Apparently I am the most pathetic person to ever live, coming to a wedding alone.”

“Harry didn’t bring anyone either,” Luna helpfully points out.

There’s an awkward pause, Ron wincing.

Harry is only a few months out of his own rather disastrous breakup, Ginny knows, and probably won’t relish the blunt reminder.

(“After all that,” Ron had reported darkly to her last time they saw each other, “it turns out she only wanted to date the bloody Chosen One. And then the thing with her going to the press after they broke it off. It’s hard enough to get Harry to focus enough to try to date as it is, he’s never going to try again now.”)

“Only because Neville managed to ask you first, Luna,” Harry says, only the tiniest edge to his tone betraying that he’s less sanguine than the light-hearted response seems to indicate.

Luna smiles brightly at him. “But I would have gone with _both_ of you,” she says, like only an idiot wouldn’t realize going with two friends is the only thing better than having one friend.

“Thanks, Luna,” Harry says with a smile. “I wasn’t quite smart enough to think of that. Instead I will just have to be pathetic.” His eyes dart over to Ginny, and she feels like an arse, letting her tongue get ahead of her.

“Yes, well,” Ginny says, “Harry never dated one of the grooms as far as I’m aware.” She pauses, giving him a look as if for him to confirm that. “Or did I miss something?”

He lifts his hands, shaking his head.

“Okay then, hands off my pathetic singleton crown, Potter. Let me have this one small victory.”

“All yours,” he says. “I have enough titles as it is.”

Everyone laughs.

“I want to dance,” Luna announces, standing abruptly.

“Well then it’s _definitely_ fortunate you came with Neville instead,” Harry says. “He’s the much better dancer.”

Neville laughs. “You can have the next dance.”

“With you or with Luna?” Harry asks.

“Both!” Luna laughs, leading Neville away.

The rest of the table empties quickly, everyone pairing off and heading for the dance floor.

“Well, you two pathetic singletons can keep each other company, yeah?” Ron says as he gets up, offering his hand to Hermione.

Ginny scowls after him. “Your mate is a real arse,” she says.

“He was your brother first,” Harry points out.

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

Harry lets out a quiet scoff.

Getting up, she scoots around so she won’t have to yell across the table. “So, how are you? I feel like I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

Just as busy with the aurors as she’s been with the Harpies, she imagines.

He slides her a look, his eyes narrowing. “Has Hermione set you up for meddling?”

She leans back in horror. “Excuse _you_ , I am not a meddler.”

He seems to consider that, a small smile playing at his lips. “No. You never were, were you?”

She nods, appeased. “Don’t you bloody forget it.”

They fall back into companionable silence. It’s nice, not feeling like she needs to be performing every moment. Having dates to things can be bloody exhausting.

A song with a thrumming beat blares across the reception, groups of people bopping ridiculously about in various groups. Ginny smiles as she sees Luna happily dancing around in a circle off to one side by herself. This leaves Neville watching on with amusement, but also opens him up to rather a lot of no doubt unwanted attention.

Ginny leans into Harry. “Which of Seamus’s cousins is going to try to stick their tongue down Neville’s throat first, do you think?”

Harry doesn’t even hesitate, gesturing his glass towards a mousy-looking thing in purple robes. “That one.”

“Not her?” she asks, jutting a chin towards a blonde witch in gauzy sea foam robes that have clearly been hit with a dampening charm so as to cling in all the most suggestive places.

What is it about weddings that bring out the sheer desperation in people anyway? Like if they don’t all pair off immediately they will get left behind?

“No,” Harry says, clearly confident in his read of the situation. “It’s never the obvious ones you need to look out for. It’s the quiet ones. They’re the most devious. And handsy.”

Ginny is oddly delighted by this unexpected observation. Apparently Harry has learned a lot the last few years, dodging the endless attention of his adoring fans. Everyone loves a hero, after all. “Really?”

Harry nods, expression grim. “Women are a lot like dark wizards,” he says. “The ones darting around in great billowing capes and evil masks are probably the ones you need to worry about least. It’s the one hiding in plain sight that will get you every time.”

Ginny blinks, looking over at him.

“What?” he asks.

“I’m not sure if I should be impressed by your professional expertise, offended by being compared to a dark wizard, or just sad that you sound so ridiculously jaded at the ripe old age of twenty-two.”

“Twenty-three,” he corrects.

“Oh yes,” she says, tapping her glass to his. “Happy birthday.”

He rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”

The playoffs ate up most of July this year, so she missed a lot of celebrations like that. She frowns, trying to figure out just how long it’s been since she’s been around Harry. It feels like a really long time. Which is strange. They’ve never been particularly close, but they’ve always been friendly, at least.

“Ha!” he says, jabbing his finger.

She follows the gesture to find small and mousy with her hand on Neville’s bum.

“Not quite a tongue, but I’m still impressed.”

He shakes his head. “What a bloody nightmare.”

She peers at him, noting for the first time the slight flush to his cheeks. It occurs to her that this is more than he usually talks. Especially to her. “How drunk are you exactly?”

“Not drunk enough.”

Well, then. “I might be able to help,” she says, pulling up her skirt just far enough to access the carefully concealed in-case-of-an-emergency flask. This certainly counts.

Harry stares down at her leg, looking a little stunned. Clearly for all he prides himself as an expert on witches, he has barely begun to scratch the surface.

She opens the flask, taking a small sip. He gazes longingly at it, but Ginny doesn’t hand it over. “You were saying about women, Potter?”

“That you are all amazing and we don’t deserve you,” he immediately says.

“What a charmer,” she says, passing it off.

He takes a long draw, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bless you.”   

“I had a strange feeling this evening might require fortification.”

He snorts in agreement.

They pass the flask back and forth under the table for a while, continuing to quietly make disparaging comments about anything and everything they can. Ginny takes each time she actually manages to make him laugh as a small victory.

“It’s been far too long since we’ve hung out,” she says, her body feeling warm and relaxed.

“Yeah,” he says, still staring off at the dance floor.

“Why is that?” she wonders.

She has the unexpected thought that she’s missed him. She’s just forgotten how fun he can be. That’s all it is, she tells herself. She is not reverting back to her very old and very bad habits when it comes to Harry Potter. She’s hardly eleven anymore, and she’s long since stopped seeing him as some dashing hero.

When she glances over at him, she sees that the smile has slipped from his face, his fingers tapping absently against his empty glass. “I’m not sure.”

She gets the distinct impression that he’s lying, but that leads her down the path to thinking he’s been avoiding her for a _reason_ , and she refuses to be that paranoid.  

They fall back into silence then, less companionable than before, and Ginny is annoyed at herself for even bringing it up. More alcohol is clearly the answer.

She manages to sweet-talk a waiter into bringing the Chosen One another ale, and Harry rolls his eyes, but is more than happy to take it.

“Might as well be worth something,” he mutters, clearly just as annoyed with the attention his fame brings him as ever.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ginny has been watching the slow progress of a pair of witches as they creep closer and closer to Harry, the two of them whispering and nudging each other. Clearly gearing themselves up to make a move, like ask Harry for his autograph or to dance or who knows what.  

The witches get even closer, looking frighteningly determined, so Ginny flings an arm out over Harry’s shoulders.

He stiffens under the contact, and she can’t help but note that he’s a lot more filled out than he looks. _Focus, Ginny._

She leans into his ear. “You have two suspicious-looking figures sneaking up on you from behind.”

He turns slightly to look.

Her fingers brush the back of his neck, just to give the subterfuge a little authenticity. “Not that your glare isn’t effective, I just thought you wouldn’t mind a little assist.”

He turns to look at her, their faces very close together. Something a little tortured crosses his features. Or maybe just extreme annoyance. It’s hard to tell.

“Oh,” she says, starting to straighten up. “Unless you were hoping to…you know. I didn’t mean to get in the way of anything—”

“No,” Harry says, cutting her off.

She shrugs. “Rebounds can be useful, if not usually _completely_ misguided.”

“No, really,” he says, grabbing for her arm when she pulls away. “I’m not—”

Not realizing just how precarious of a position she is in, she feels herself slipping off her chair, her eyes widening. Harry grabs her around the waist, stopping her from spilling to the floor.

She starts to laugh, turning her face into his chest. “Well now they should get the message.”

“I, uh, appreciate it,” Harry says, his voice a little funny.

Regaining her balance, she drags her chair closer to his, leaning into his side and propping her feet up on the seat of the chair next to her. “I’ll guard you then, if you’re sure.”

His arm is still across the back of her chair, so she tells herself he must not mind too terribly.

“You would think,” Harry says, “after reading about how awful of a human being I am, they would stop trying.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. One, you are not a terrible human being. And two, even if you were, that will never be enough to scare some people off.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Harry says. “My flaws are wide and varied.”

“Are they really?” she asks, peering up at him.  

He nods enthusiastically, like once he’s started he can’t stop, and clearly he is feeling the alcohol. “I’m a terrible boyfriend.”

Somehow she doubts that, but it’s not like she would know. “Okay. Astonish me. I’ll start making a list. We can hand it to anyone who gets too close.”

He huffs under his breath, taking a hearty draw on the flask before handing it back to her. “I’m emotionally unavailable.”

Ginny laughs, sure that this is a joke. Harry’s emotions have always been blindingly transparent.  

He shrugs. “Or so she gleefully told the press.”

Ginny heard about the articles, of course, but refused to read them. Not that she doesn’t have more than enough opinions about the whole torrid mess anyway. In particular, surrounding the things she’d like to say to the witch in question.

“What a bitch,” Ginny finds herself saying, cheeks warm with anger.  

Harry frowns, like he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to defend his duplicitous, cranky ex. He eventually settles for nodding, and knowing Harry, that’s a pretty damning action. He’s never been as petty as she is.

He looks morosely down at the table.

Ginny gnaws on her lip. “Well, don’t think you’ve cornered the market or anything,” she says, nudging him with her elbow. “I’ve been told many times that I am a horrid girlfriend.”

Harry looks up at her, his expression incredulous. “Bollocks,” he says. “Who would say that?”

His voice isn’t exactly quiet and he immediately looks around the room as if in search of the perpetrators of such slander. Drunk Harry is apparently just as ready to throw down for his friends as sober Harry.

She tries to wave it away with a careless gesture of her hand. “Apparently I’m emasculating.”

Harry, in the process of taking a sip of his ale as he glares around the room, actually spits out his drink. “You… _what_?” he asks, looking comically alarmed as he mops up his chin.

She laughs, conjuring the mental image of herself going around gelding men. “I don’t make men feel useful,” she clarifies.

It’s not like she _tries_ to make them feel that way. She just isn’t going to sit around and wait for someone else to do something for her when she can do it herself.

Curling her legs under her, she leans her elbow on the table, propping up her chin. “I guess I’m not needy enough.”

Harry frowns. “Why? Because you’re capable?” He snorts dismissively. “I bet you don’t need to be told five hundred times a day how pretty you are.”

And that is an interesting glimpse into his ex. She can’t imagine Harry would be all that great at that kind of daily flattery. Doesn’t really seem his style. “Pretty is boring. I’d rather be told how terrifying I am.”

Harry lets out a strangled laugh, like it emerges reluctantly. “You get that a lot?”

“Nowhere near as often as I’d like,” she says with a sigh.  

Harry grins at her, something full-blown and uninhibited, and she blames her inebriated state for the stray though that his stupid smile has lost none of its appeal.

She lifts the flask, taking another long draw, glaring over at Seamus’s aunt giving her a scandalized look.

“You do though,” Harry says, almost as if an afterthought.

“What?” she asks, having lost the thread of the conversation as she tucks the flask away again.

“Look, you know, amazing,” he says, vaguely gesturing at her body.

She looks down at herself, giving her dress a critical eye even as she feels her face warm with what she really, really hopes is not a blush. “Oh,” she says. “Thank you.” She lifts her chin, trying to brazen through, because she is not letting Harry push her off-kilter like this. She is well beyond that. “It’s a great dress.”  

Harry’s brow furrows. “I wasn’t really talking about the—”

Ron appears, arms around their shoulders as he leans between them. “You two look like you’re having fun.”

“Ron,” Harry says, grinning widely as if just noticing his best mate. One would think they hadn’t seen each other in months. “It’s good to see you!”

Ron chuckles in amusement, patting him on the cheek. “Oh, happy drunk Harry. Excellent.”

Hermione gives them a critical look. “What are you doing?”

Ginny waves her hand dismissively. “Just recounting our massive shortcomings, right, Harry?”

Harry nods, lifting his hand for a laughably clumsy high five.

“Okay,” Ron says, eyes dancing with amusement. “Give it up, Gin.”  

“Give up what?” she asks, widening her eyes to look innocent.

“Oh, please, don’t even bother. Hand it over.”

Ginny pulls out the flask with a sigh.

Ron gives it a shake. “Already half empty, I see. Well done.” He takes a generous swig.

Hermione does not look impressed, swiping the flask from him.

Ron just grins at her. “Wouldn’t do to let Harry get sloshed on his own, now would it? What kind of mate would I be?”

Hermione shakes her head, plopping the flask down on the table. “Ginny started this, so she gets the dubious honor of making sure Harry doesn’t make an arse of himself.”

“Wait, you’re expecting me to be the responsible one?” Ginny asks.

She gives them both prim looks. “No, I expect Harry to stop you from doing anything stupid and you to stop Harry from doing anything stupid.”

With that, Hermione draws Ron back towards the dance floor.

“That seems awfully short-sighted of her,” Ginny observes.

Harry just shakes his head, picking up the flask only to frown. He turns it upside down, shaking it.

At first Ginny wonders if Ron managed to somehow drink it all, but then she remembers Hermione handling it. “That sneak!”

She must have bloody vanished it. When Ginny gets her hands on her…

Harry stops her from getting up. “You’re not really going to go yell at a pregnant lady, are you?”

“Well, first of all, no one knows about that.”

He gives her an unimpressed look.

“Fine. She wins this round,” she says, sending Hermione a nasty look and collapsing back in her seat. This wedding is getting more unbearable by the moment, and out of the corner of her eye she can see the two witches are regrouping for another attempt on poor Harry. “What are we going to do now?”

“I’ve got a nice bottle back home too,” Harry says wistfully, resting his chin in his hand. “But I wasn’t quite as forward thinking as you, to have brought it with me.”

Well, there’s an answer. “Let’s go get it.”

He blinks up at her. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to go to my flat?” he asks.

“I hate being managed,” she says, already pushing to her feet. If Hermione says she shouldn’t drink, well, then, she’s going to drink _everything_. And she is not going to stop Harry from doing a single stupid thing.

That will show her.

Harry doesn’t look so certain, clearly not bright enough to realize the utter brilliance of her plan.

“It’ll take, what? Ten minutes tops? No one will even notice we’re gone.” She gestures at the dance floor. “Besides, would you really rather stay here?”

He looks out over at the couples plastered up against each other and happily circling to a slow, sappy song. “No,” he decides, pushing to his feet, only to sway.

Ginny reaches out to steady him.

“Hmm,” he says, frowning. “Apparating might not be a great idea right now.”

Definitely not. She winds her hand through the crook of his elbow, pulling him towards the cloak closet. “There’s a Floo back there.”

Harry’s face contorts into disgust, confirming that it is still his least favorite form of travel.

Ginny gestures at his face, nearly poking him in the eye. “See? That emotion is _totally_ available.”

He playfully shoves at her. “Piss off.”

“That’s the whole fucking point, Potter. To get pissed.”

Whoops, she must be drunker than she thought, locker-room language always coming out against her will at some point. Harry doesn’t seem put off though, just stepping up the fireplace with a wary look in his eye. He probably hears worse on a daily basis in the aurors.

They stumble out together into his sitting room, Harry coughing in complaint.

She’s the one who had to do it drunk _and_ in heels.

Righting herself, she looks around her surroundings. She’s never been to his flat. Once Ron and Hermione moved in together, Harry got his own place and there hadn’t really been any reason for her to visit him.

She realizes he’s watching her as if looking for a reaction.

“It’s nice,” she says.

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s plain and stuffy,” he says, and Ginny doesn’t have to wonder where _that_ came from.

She looks around again, giving it a critical sweep. It’s certainly neat and maybe even slightly sparse, but it’s also rather…well, Harry. If that’s somehow an adjective.

“Maybe it’s utilitarian,” she concedes. “But also kinda…warm, you know? And comfy-looking. It’s great.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, looking painfully hopeful.

She nods, not quite sure why her opinion should matter. “My flat is a mess.” Which it would be, three Quidditch players sharing together. “Stuff everywhere.”

Harry huffs under his breath. “I think I’d like to see that.”

“Would you?” Ginny shoots back without thinking, and Christ, she hates the way alcohol shortens the distance between her brain and her mouth.

He stares back at her, something awkward seeming to swell, and this entire endeavor felt like a great idea when faced with the horrible wedding, but now she’s in Harry’s flat and that is just…weird.

“Um, alcohol,” Harry says.  

“Yes,” she says, stepping out of her hellish heels as Harry disappears off into the kitchen. “You did promise!”

While he’s tracking down his bottle, she wanders over to a wireless, fiddling with the knobs until she finds something she likes. Nothing sappy or ridiculous or like it would be played at a wedding, but nothing loud and obnoxious either. She finally settles on something, bouncing a bit on her feet to the beat. Maybe in a different situation, she would have liked to dance.

“Make yourself at home,” Harry says.

Feeling her face burn, she decides brazening through is clearly the best idea, slowly turning in a circle as she executes an exaggerated shimmy.

She’s rewarded with a smile from Harry. He sets down a bottle of Ogden’s and two glasses on the low table.

“Oh,” she says. “The good stuff.”

“Nothing but the best,” he says, voice wry. Pouring a splash into each glass, he hands one to her.

“Okay,” she says, taking the glass. “Let’s make this interesting. Tell me the other reasons you are a shite boyfriend. One per shot.”

“Sure that bottle is enough?” he asks, clearly trying to be funny, but really sounding bitter. Ginny is suddenly and inexplicably filled with the urge to punch his ex in the face.

She lifts her glass in salute. “I am arrogant and full of myself,” she declares, pouring the shot down her throat and doing her best not to cough at the fire in her chest.

“You’re brilliant,” Harry says, eyebrows drawing together and making him look wonderfully intimidating.

“Maybe,” she says, refusing to admit how warmed she is by that. “But apparently I’m supposed to pretend I don’t think so.”

Harry shakes his head, lifting his glass. “I’m no fun. Way too serious all the time.” He downs the shot, wincing and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. The tiniest bit of smoke winds out his ears.

“You’re pretty fun right now,” she counters.

“Nope,” he says, making a sweeping diagonal gesture with his hand. “A sad sack.”

He refills his glass, but Ginny snatches it out of his hand before he can drink it, throwing it back herself. “Can’t say I can judge the character of your sack, Harry.”

There’s a beat of silence as he stares at her with wide eyes and then they are both absolutely lost with laughter, the two of them falling back onto the couch.

“As you can see, I’m also crass,” she gasps out. She grabs the bottle, lifting it high. “Questionable sense of humor and an unfortunate drunk!”  

“I’m work-obsessed,” Harry gleefully counters, swiping the bottle from her. “Prefer crime and murder to dinner parties.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Ginny wonders.

Harry lets out a triumphant shout of laughter. “Exactly!”

Ginny’s face is starting to feel numb, right around her mouth. “I’m pushy and demanding.”

Harry makes a dismissive sound. “I’m codependent.”

“I thought you were supposed to be emotionally unavailable?” she says, her body listing sideways until she comes to a stop against his shoulder.

He shakes his head, bottle cradled into his chest, neither of them having remembered to take another drink in a while. “Not to my best mates. Whom I hang around too much and talk about too much.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “At least you have best friends.”

“What?” he asks, head swiveling towards her. “You have tons of friends. You’re like…the most popular person to ever live.”

Ginny smiles fondly at him. Drunk Harry is apparently a fan of hyperbole. “I supposedly only have _acquaintances_. Lots and lots of shallow friendships.”

Callum called her icy once. Frigid. _Incapable of letting anyone in._

She leans her face into Harry’s arm. He’s so nice and warm. There’s a smell there, too, something that makes her unexpectedly think of Hogwarts and Quidditch and potions class of all things.

“I just don’t like it when people press, you know?” she says, almost as if just to see what she’s going to say, like the words are completely out of her control at this point of drunkenness. “Or try to dig, or force me to tell them things.”

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

She shudders, crossing her arms over her chest. “Reminds me too much of Tom.”

For a moment, she’s unsure if she actually said that out loud. She does not talk about this. But it’s not like Harry doesn’t already know. Every sordid detail.

Without a word, he lifts his arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer. She relaxes into him with a sigh.

“Ugh. Tom. What a fucker,” she complains.

“He was a fucker,” Harry agrees, as if this is somehow the perfect word he’s been in search of for years. He repeats it again, like trying it out on his tongue. “ _Fucker_.”

Something about the way he says it, like he isn’t quite used to profanity but really really means it anyway, makes Ginny want to laugh, or maybe cry. She isn’t clear anymore.

“I’m really glad you got rid of him, Harry,” she says, patting him on the thigh. “If I never actually said.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

They sit there for a long time, the mood turning horribly somber.

Ginny forces herself to sit up, slipping out from under his arm. “I need another drink,” she says, reaching for the bottle.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, letting his arm drop. “Definitely.”

They chat about the wedding for a while, guessing what they might be missing, what things they find most ridiculous about weddings. The way they seem to be coming more and more often these days.

By the time the bottle is half empty, Ginny is lying upside down, her legs propped up on the back of the couch as she languidly kicks her feet, her head resting on Harry’s thigh. The room is spinning pleasantly, nothing but the radio softly crooning in the background.

They haven’t said a word to each other in what feels like a quarter hour at least. She’s just begun to suspect that Harry has passed out, when he speaks again.

“It really doesn’t bother you? Dean gettin’ married?”

She’s been asked that more times than she can count at this point and she should probably be annoyed at the very least, but Harry sounds sincere, like he’s worried for her, not just wanting salacious details to gossip about later.

“It honestly doesn’t.” It’s not that she hadn’t cared about Dean, or thought she maybe even loved him after a fashion. The break up hadn’t been fun. But that had been years ago, and honestly, they probably should have broken up much, much sooner. It’s amazing how much guilt can make you do stupid things, or fear of never finding anything else. Better something fine enough than nothing, right? She sighs. “I _am_ a bit sad to be missing cake though.”

Harry dutifully smiles, but he doesn’t look all that amused to be honest. He lets his head fall back against the couch, his eyes closing. “I still think he’s barking.”

“Why?”

“To have let you go.”

She pokes him in the leg. “Who says I’m not the one who let him go?”

Harry doesn’t respond, his lips just curving into a smile as his hand absently pats her on the head.

“No need to be mad on my behalf,” she mumbles, thinking what a good bloke Harry is, being protective of pretty much everyone around him.

Harry lets out a snort. “Spent most of sixth year wantin’ to hex Dean as it is,” he slurs, eyes still closed and words slow.

Ginny tries hard to remember any particular animosity between the two dorm-mates, but can’t come up with anything. It’s possible her brain isn’t functioning at peak efficiency at the moment though. “I thought you liked Dean.”

“I do.”

She frowns. “Then why where you gonna hex him?”

“’Cause I was mad for you.”

Ginny blinks, staring up at the ceiling and wondering just how drunk she is. Well, she _knows_ she’s drunk, but is she at the point of hallucinating? She cranes her neck around to see Harry, and she feels her hair pull slightly, realizing belatedly that his hand is wound into the strands. “What?”

Harry’s body tenses, his eyes snapping open like he’s just realized he actually spoke out loud. For a while he just breathes heavily, staring off straight ahead.

Like she’ll what? Forget he said anything?

Not bloody likely.

“Harry,” she presses, poking him in the side.

“Hey,” he says, eyes darting to her face and then quickly away, “you had a crush on me first.”

She feels a flush of something that might be anger or embarrassment at the mean reminder of her childish antics. It takes some effort on her part, but she somehow manages not to let that derail her.

“You were really mad for me?” she asks. Her voice sounds incredulous.

Which of course it would, because the very idea is ridiculous. There is no bloody way Harry had a thing for her. He never showed any inkling of interest in her. Ever. She would have bloody noticed something like that. She would have noticed and—

And what? Jumped at the chance? Broken up with Dean?

Would she have?

Harry flings an arm across his face with a groan. “I know. Daft, right? ‘Specially since ‘Mione’d just told me.”

“Told you what?”

“’Bout you not seeing me that way anymore.” He lets out a derisive snort. “You gettin’ over me right as I was gettin’…” He waves his hands in a wonky circle. “Under you, I suppose.” He frowns as if those aren’t really the words he was looking for.

Ginny’s brain goes to a _very_ unexpected place, thinking about Harry being under her. Her skin prickles all over.

She shakes her head in a desperate attempt to free herself from the image. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He flaps his hand. “You were with Dean! For, like, _forever_. And then after…it still didn’t really matter did it?”

“ _After_?” she asks, voice squeaking. After…meaning not just sixth year. Meaning years later. Meaning not all that long ago.

But Harry is apparently done talking about this, gently moving her head off his leg and heaving back to his feet. “I need a snack.” He swerves alarmingly, but disappears into the kitchen.

It takes Ginny a moment to flip her body around, finally getting her feet to meet the floor. Everything swivels unhelpfully, her stomach not at all keen on the sudden movement. She eventually manages to follow him into the kitchen. There is no way he is dumping that on her and then just walking away.

Harry has the refrigerator door open, leaning down but just staring into it as if he’s forgotten why he opened it in the first place.

Or as if he’s hiding.  

“Harry,” she says, one hand braced on the door of the refrigerator to keep herself upright. “Exactly how long were you mad for me?”

She just still can’t wrap her brain around it, and her mouth is back to doing a lovely job of just blurting out every thought in her head.

Harry’s body freezes, his face still hidden by the refrigerator door. “I never teased you once about your crush,” he says, sounding aggrieved. “Not even when I was twelve and a git, or after that barmy poem.”

“I was eleven!” she yelps, face heating up at the memory.

“And what, because I’m twenty-three it makes me pathetic?” he snaps, standing up to look at her.

Ginny’s eyes widen.

Harry looks similarly horrified, as if realizing what he just admitted. He slams the fridge door shut. “I need more alcohol. A lot more. Or you have to obliviate me. Because I need there be zero chance of me remembering any of this tomorrow.”

He heads back towards the sitting room, muttering to himself under his breath.

She follows him out, getting there just in time to swipe the bottle away from him.

“Hey,” he protests. “I need that.”

“No,” she says, putting it on the table. “Look, I’m really drunk, so I need to make sure I understand this. You’re saying you are _still_ mad about me. Like this moment. Right now.”

Harry collapses back on the couch, digging his fingers up under his glasses. “For god’s sake, Ginny. Please stop talking or at least give me the bottle back. Or, I don’t know, hit me over the head with it.”

She ignores him, her hands somehow successfully settling on her hips. “Is _this_ why I’ve barely seen you the last year?”

He curses. “I’m trying, Ginny, okay? But you just keep showing up and being… _you_ , and I can’t bloody help it!”

Can’t help being mad for her. Still. This moment.

Ginny’s brain is firing on a million levels, none of them making particular sense.

“I think we should kiss,” she blurts.

 _Oh, sweet Merlin, where had that come from?_ she wonders.

His eyes widen, seeming just as stunned as she is by the proclamation. He shakes his head slightly as if wondering if his ears are failing him. “ _What_?”

She honestly isn’t sure where the idea came from either, but she feels stupidly committed to it in the moment. “Yeah. We should kiss. And then it’ll just, you know…” She makes a vague shooing motion with her hand.

“It’ll what?” Harry asks, clearly not as attuned to how genius this whole idea _clearly_ is.

She drops down onto the couch next to him. “Well, you’ll see that I’m not really worth being hung up on, right? You can stop wondering. And then we can put it all behind us. My crush, your crush. All this…weirdness.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“Do you not _want_ to kiss me?” she asks, a little insulted by his resistance.

“No, no, no, no, that’s not what I’m saying.” He frowns. “Wait. Do _you_ want to kiss me?”

Instead of answering that, even inside her own head, she tucks her legs under her, turning her body towards him and lifting up. The maneuver is a bit more challenging than she expects, and she tips towards him. The only thing that keeps them from knocking heads is Harry’s hands on her arms holding her steady. Still, they end up very, very close to each other, Ginny’s face right up next to his.

Merlin, he smells good. Even with the sour hint of alcohol on his breath.

“You said I’m brilliant,” she says, not quite ready to try to sort through any of her own feelings or thoughts. Particularly not that one about him being under her that seems to be lingering despite her best intentions.

His face contorts, like he’s trying really hard not to make more of an arse of himself. He closes his eyes, letting out a breath. “’Course you are. You’re…you’re _Ginny_ ,” he says, that like somehow explains everything, like her name somehow substitutes every descriptor he can think of.

“And you’re Harry,” she says, her voice softening.

His shoulders drop. “Unfortunately.”

“That’s a good thing, idiot,” she says. “A really really good thing. Trust me.”

He meets her gaze, looking hopeful and sad and conflicted all at once. Lifting his hand, he barely brushes his fingers against her cheek, like maybe he’s wanted to do that for a long time, and despite the growing sense of numbness in her body, it sends an avalanche of sensations across her skin.

Maybe this is a bad idea, she starts to think, but Harry is already ducking his head, and she’s leaning into him and it’s too late. His lips are right there against hers, almost hesitant at first, but helped along when her traitorous hand fists in his shirt and drags him closer.

He makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh, and seems to throw any last caution to the wind. Merlin, his hand is cupping her jaw and he’s kissing her with a sort of focused intent that makes her knees weaken, and how is that really even a thing? They are supposed to kiss and destroy the mystery and get back to normal, but she thinks if he lets go of her or stops kissing her she’s going to lose her mind.

She runs her fingers through his hair and down his neck and over his shoulders, indulging every half-formed impulse as it enters her mind, every long-suppressed urge, and it’s much better than she’s ever imagined it would be. Because she _has_ imagined it. No matter how much she’s tried to pretend otherwise.

This apparently only encourages Harry, because his hands find her waist, pulling her up against him as they list back and now she’s nearly lying on him, and yes, having him under her is exactly the thing she’s always needed.

He cradles her into his chest, his fingers in her hair as the kiss slows and deepens, not some blind, drunk hook up, but something much more dangerous. Everything is just spinning, spinning, spinning and Harry is so warm, his hands sliding up and down her back, comforting and soothing as he continues to kiss her as if he never wants to stop.

Ginny hopes he never does.

*      *     *

Ginny wakes to the realization that she is lying in a bed with someone pressed up against her back. Harry, to be more specific, she realizes as the events of the previous evening come rushing back.

His hand is splayed across her bare stomach, holding her close against his chest, and her first thought is that she never would have taken him for a sleeping limpet. But that is hardly the most pressing issue. She can feel the uncomfortable dig of her bra into her breast, meaning she is still wearing it, even if she feels rather bare other than her knickers.

When she tries very, very hard, she can dig up vague memories of waking in the middle of the night hot and sweaty and twisted up in the fabric of her dress. She’d tugged it off impatiently before falling back asleep. So that’s where her dress went.

What is a slightly clearer memory is Harry bringing her in here, to his bedroom, making her drink a glass of water and then tucking her in with a gentle kiss to her forehead, the way they definitely stopped at just a leisurely snog. They were both drunk enough to make that a very, _very_ good thing. Though if they’d been _slightly_ drunker and could have both blacked out entirely, that would be better. Even a debilitating head injury that led to amnesia would be better than having to wake up and face this. The fact that she brazenly threw herself at him.

Giving in to the inevitable, she cracks one eye open only to immediately shut it again, her entire body stiffening at the explosion of agony in her head at the light pouring relentlessly into the room. The roiling in her stomach also decides to make itself known.

Christ, she hates fire whiskey.

Harry definitely notices her wakeful state, his hand slowly retreating as if he’s hoping not to draw attention to it being there in the first place. He rolls away, taking all his warmth with him.

Reaching down, she gropes for sheets or blankets or anything to tug up over herself. Only once she’s successfully burrowed under the coverlet does she dare to roll over. Harry is lying on his back on top of the covers, eyes squeezed shut—though whether that’s because he’s in similar agony or protecting her modesty or just out of sheer mortification, she can’t be sure. He’s fortunately in a much more clothed state—still in his trousers, his dress shirt half-unbuttoned and wrinkled beyond saving. He has one sock on for some reason. But _definitely_ not naked.  

“I don’t suppose you have any hangover potion on hand,” she mumbles.

He shakes his head, only to stop abruptly, his face turning grey.

They lie there in mutual misery for a while, until they both seem to realize the only way this is ever going to end is by risking getting out of bed, even if Ginny half-suspects it will only lead to their deaths.

Harry gingerly rolls off the bed, crossing over to a dresser. Pulling open a drawer, he grabs a few things, returning to hold out a pair of joggers and a shirt to her.

“Do you want…?” he asks, voice deep and raspy as he keeps his eyes carefully averted.

She wonders if he always sounds like this first thing in the morning only to immediately shove away the traitorous thought.

“Um, yeah, thanks,” she says, taking the clothes from him.

He nods, leaving the room to give her some privacy.  After the door closes behind him, she lies prone for a while, eventually pulling the clothes on as quickly as she can without vomiting. As much as hiding in his room for all eternity has appeal, she knows she can’t.

After a trip to the loo, she finds Harry out into the kitchen. He’s already at the potion station, ingredients pulled out.  She steps up next to him, reaching for the knife and smashing a few Billywig stingers. Without a word, she hands the small plate to Harry and he slides them into the cauldron, stirring methodically three times in each direction.

They finish brewing the hangover potion with as little noise as humanly possible, Ginny chopping and smashing and peeling while Harry carefully stirs. His hand touches her back once as he reaches over her head for something, and despite how awful she feels, she enjoys the brief contact far more than she probably should.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, snatching his hand back away.

Endless years later, the potion is finally done, Harry ladling it out into two glasses. Lifting them, they wordlessly tap their glasses against each other’s before downing the contents.

They let out matching sighs of relief as the potion begins to do its work.

Of course, now that death no longer feels imminent, the reality of the situation starts to reassert itself.

“I think this is where we’re both supposed to swear off drinking for all eternity,” she says.

Harry nods. “Probably.” He walks their glasses over to the sink, lingering over the simple chore of rinsing them out far longer than it needs.

The cowardly part of her reminds her that the best thing to do would probably be just leave. And maybe he wants her to, considering what a good job he’s doing not looking at her.

Before Ginny can formulate a plan, he tentatively says, “Breakfast?”

Ginny blows out a breath, something like relief swamping her stomach. “Yeah,” she says.  

She starts tea on the stove while Harry digs through the refrigerator, pulling out various foodstuffs.

Rather quickly he has eggs, bacon, and fresh baked muffins on the table.

They tuck in silently, both apparently intent on eating. She would think that’s more avoidance, except she only ever feels fully recovered from a hangover once she’s managed breakfast and a shower.

“This is really good,” she says after she’s nearly through her first round and she trusts her stomach is going to remain settled. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

He shrugs. “I can get by. I just never had much reason to with your mum and Ron around.”

She nods. “Well, being an amazing cook is definitely something to put on your ‘makes a good boyfriend’ column,” she says, wincing the moment she lets the wayward words out. Sober Ginny is supposed to be smarter about things like this.

She does avoid making it worse by holding back the observation that his snogging skills should be on that list as well.

Harry pulls his glasses off, burying his face in his hands in what looks like sheer misery.

“We will probably actually have to talk about this at some point,” Ginny says. “Unless we were planning on pretending we were both too drunk to remember. Or I suppose we could just avoid each other for the rest of our lives?”

Might be tricky considering he’s practically a member of her family.  

He sighs. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles into his hands.

“For what?” Ginny asks, suddenly feeling the need to be very clear on exactly what is happening here.

“For opening my stupid mouth. I shouldn’t have. And I definitely shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Ginny chews on her bottom lip. “Because we were drunk or because you didn’t want to?”

He finally meets her eyes, a little bleak like he’s got nothing left to hide behind. But also like he’d kiss her again if he had his choice. She really wants him to look at her like that far more often.

“Because it definitely didn’t have the intended effect,” he says. “And now everything is weird. And I never wanted things to be weird.”

It’s definitely weird. Though not quite as weird as she would expect. “Is that why you never said anything?”

He drags his hand over his face. “I knew you didn’t…feel that way.” He sighs. “You’re all my family, you know? And I don’t want to make it awkward for you to be in your own house, but I also don’t want to have to avoid it myself because I would miss you all really terribly and I just—”

“Hermione was wrong,” she says, cutting off his spiral of imagined disasters.

“What?” he asks, peering up at her.

“It does happen occasionally,” she says, aware that she’s stalling, dancing around what she really needs to say, if she can really trust that this is happening.

Harry ignores her weak attempt at humor. “Wrong about what?”

She bites her lip, and just shoves the truth out. “I never really got over you.”

Harry’s hands drop to the table, his expression one of stunned confusion.

“I mean, I moved on. Obviously. And I did my absolute best never to think of you that way. Partly self-preservation and partly so you wouldn’t have to feel uncomfortable around me. And I _definitely_ got over hero-worshipping you.”

He doesn’t react, still staring at her like he’s back to worrying he might vomit. Though his eyes seem to suggest it’s a different emotion entirely.

“But last night made it rather obvious to me that I…” She looks back at him, holding his gaze, feeling the way her heartbeat speeds up, the way talking to him or just being around him makes something soft and dangerous rise up in her—all things she’s become accustomed to associating with him but has refused to let herself analyze. “I’m still firmly under you.”

Harry sits motionlessly, just staring back at her. He’s really beginning to freak her out, and she’s had this nightmare before—blurting out all her feelings to Harry only to have him slink away and never speak to her again.

“Have you…changed your mind?” she asks. Did he not really mean it? Did she hallucinate it?

His eyes latch onto hers, and he grabs for her hands, bumping the table in his haste. “God, no. I’m just…not sure how to absorb the fact that this whole time we’ve been…”

“Wasting time? Dancing around each other? Being idiots?”

“I’d quite like to yell at Hermione now,” he says in a rush.

“You’re really going to yell at a pregnant lady?”

He shakes his head. “I honestly have no idea what to do right now.”

“What do you want to do?”

His gaze drops immediately to her lips. “A lot of things.”

She forces herself to ignore the rush of heat that conjures, refusing to be distracted quite yet. “This isn’t just some rebound for you, is it? I don’t think I can handle being your rebound.”

His hands tightens around hers. “Ginny. I’ve been crazy for you since I was sixteen. I promise it’s not just some passing fancy.”

“Why?” she asks, honestly having a really hard time understanding how he can feel this way about her, and for so long. “How?”

He shrugs, not like it doesn’t matter, but like maybe it’s indefinable. _You’re Ginny._ “You’ve always made me feel…good. Just being…me.”

“You should feel good, being you,” she says, “because you’re really great.”

“So are you,” he says, painfully earnest in his conviction. He studies her a moment, his gaze almost like a physical touch. “And you’re also…”

She licks her lips. “What?”

“Really fucking hot,” he says in a rush.

The awkwardly crass words combined with his trademark sincerity are just too much for her, laughter bubbling up her throat. “Oh my god,” she says. “How are you so stupidly perfect?”

He shakes his head. “I’m a disaster.”

She gets up, sliding around the table towards him. “Whatever you are,” she says, sitting on his lap, “I like it. I always have.”

He looks up at her, his hands squeezing at her waist. “I’ve got this wedding I have to go to in a few weeks. Any chance you’d be my date?”

She bites her lip, still having a hard time believing this is happening, that Harry is looking up at her like that. “You just want my flask.”  

“Pretty sure there’s going to be an open bar at this one,” he says.

“Finally,” Ginny says, “someone who knows how to throw a proper party.”

“You haven’t answered,” he points out.

“I thought the sitting sprawled across your lap in only your T-shirt and joggers might have been answer enough. Or maybe last night.”

“It’s all a bit hazy for my taste,” he says.

“Well then,” she says, pulling his glasses off his face. “Let’s make it clearer, shall we?”

Whatever small lingering worry she might have held about the role alcohol played in all of this seems to evaporate the moment his mouth is once again on hers. It’s in no way less powerful for being sober, more like now she gets to enjoy each tiny detail, the feel of his jaw slightly rough against hers, the way he just feels like he fits against her.

His mouth opens wider, drawing her in, and it’s not fair that he can turn her into a pile of goo this quickly, but she is in no way complaining either.

Her fingers find the edge of his collar, sliding under the cloth, and he makes a sound against her mouth that she can’t imagine ever getting tired of hearing.

“Harry,” a distant voice calls from the other room. “You alive?”

They pull back from each other, Ron’s voice easily recognizable over the rush of the Floo. A look of what Ginny can only call sheer panic crosses Harry’s face.

Ginny starts to shift off his lap, but Harry’s grip on her only tightens.

She looks at him in question. “If you don’t want him to know…”

“I want _everyone_ to know,” he says fervently.

So maybe, she’s left to wonder, he’s worried that she won’t? She settles back on his lap. “Well then, you’d better invite him in. It’s the surest way to spread it fast.”

“You’re sure?” he asks.

She looks at him, all disheveled and well kissed and, fuck, yes, she’s certain. “Completely.”

His shoulders relax, the two of them grinning stupidly at each other.

“Harry?” Ron bellows louder.

“Come on through!” Harry shouts back.

Ginny wraps her arms around his neck, too comfortable to move.

“You disappeared without a word last night, so I thought I would make sure you weren’t—” Ron appears around the corner, brushing off his clothes. His hands freeze mid-movement as his eyes land on them—Ginny draped across Harry’s lap in what are clearly his clothes, his own shirt more unbuttoned than not.

Ron’s face seems to travel an entire continent of emotions—shock, confusion, disgust, amusement, annoyance—before settling on something like smugness.

“It’s about fucking time,” he announces.

This is not at all what Ginny expects from him. “Well, not yet,” she shoots back, feeling strangely needled. “But in all fairness, it has only been half a day.”

Ron’s mouth drops open.

She winces, gingerly peering over at Harry’s face. “Crass with an unfortunate sense of humor, remember?”

But Harry only smiles. “I think you mean bloody brilliant.”

She grins back at him, leaning into him and thinking about him being under her again.

“Um, yeah,” Ron says. “So now that I know you’re both alive, I’ll see myself out, yeah?”

Harry nods, his eyes still firmly focused on her lips.

Ron barely disappears around the corner before Harry is kissing her again.

“Don’t forget dinner at the Burrow!” Ron shouts. By which time, everyone will doubtlessly know.

They ignore him, having far more interesting things to pay attention to at the moment. Ginny shifts, turning so she is straddling Harry’s lap, his hands sliding up the back of her shirt. Things rapidly get very, very interesting, the two of them shifting in an attempt to get closer and closer.  

She forces herself to pull back at one point, feeling very out of breath. “How’s your shower?” she asks, fingers trailing down the sides of his gaping shirt.

“What?” Harry asks, frowning like he’s having a hard time understanding the question. “Oh. It’s pretty good.”

“Yeah?” she asks.

He nods. “Uh. Feel free to use it,” he tacks on, as if it’s finally occurred to him it’s the polite thing to offer.  

She nods, sliding off his lap, noting the way his hand rather reluctantly pulls out from under her shirt. He looks befuddled and a little disgruntled and she thinks he couldn’t be more attractive if he bloody tried.

On her way out of the kitchen, she pulls his shirt up over her head, letting it fall carelessly to the floor.

Harry makes a sound of distress.

“Did I mention I’m also a slob?” she asks. “Always need to be reminded to do the dishes.”

She glances back over her shoulder, very happy to find him watching her unabashedly, hands fisted on his thighs.

“I think I can live with that,” he says, voice tight.  

She smiles, fingers moving to the clasp at the back of her bra. Pulling it off, she tosses it at him.

He makes a halfhearted grab for it, his eyes wide.

With one last challenging glance, she turns her back on him, disappearing down towards the loo. “Are you coming or what, Potter?”

There’s a long, silent pause as he apparently processes that, and then she hears the scrape of his chair as he scrambles to follow after her, catching up only a few moments later, his own shirt carelessly hitting the floor.

Late, Ginny decides as he pulls her tight against him, is _definitely_ better than never.

.fin.

 


End file.
